


three in a bed

by Stacicity



Series: triptych [3]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bickering, Canon Asexual Character, Domestic Fluff, M/M, Masturbation, Spanking, absolute tooth-rotting fluff, just so absurdly domestic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:48:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27748513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stacicity/pseuds/Stacicity
Summary: Sometimes, though. Sometimes the stars aligned and they made it back to Tim’s house together, to order takeaway and watch films and bicker. Jon had spent the first few weeks alternating between the bed and the sofa, still anxious about the idea of intruding, of breaking into the cosy circle that Tim and Martin made together. It was fragile, he seemed to think, like an egg-shell. Like a soap bubble.***A look into those "getting-to-know-you" days. Beds, and the things that happen in them.
Relationships: Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood/Tim Stoker
Series: triptych [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1718092
Comments: 54
Kudos: 279





	three in a bed

**Author's Note:**

> I did say there'd be more triptych content (never mind that it took 6 months) - hopefully this lives up to some of your hopes and expectations!

It wasn’t always the three of them there, together. Sometimes Martin went back to his own flat to enjoy a night by himself, to hoover and do laundry and all of the other chores that allowed him to spend a few more nights at Tim’s without guilt. Often Jon worked late, hunched over his desk until the wee hours of the morning, dozing with his head on a statement and the tape recorder still running until Martin found him the next morning. 

Sometimes, though. Sometimes the stars aligned and they made it back to Tim’s house together, to order takeaway and watch films and bicker. Jon had spent the first few weeks alternating between the bed and the sofa, still anxious about the idea of intruding, of breaking into the cosy circle that Tim and Martin made together. It was fragile, he seemed to think, like an egg-shell. Like a soap bubble. 

But it felt _right_ , being between them, all tangled limbs and mingled breath. Martin’s arm over his waist weighed him down but, like a life-vest, made him buoyant, giddy whenever he thought about it for too long. Tim squirmed and wriggled in his sleep, and Jon would wake sometimes with Tim’s head heavy on his chest and his hair tickling his nose, and would feel a rush of affection so intense he could scarcely breathe for it. 

Not that it was always so blissful. 

“Tim, so help me if you don’t give me back some covers—” Jon grumbled, yanking hard at one end. He was on Martin’s right side this time around, Tim on his left and apparently doing his very best to bundle himself into a little chrysalis of warmth at the end of the bed. 

“You’ve got plenty!” Tim protested, half-asleep already, winding his hands into the covers to cling to them and hold them to his chest as Jon braced his feet against the mattress and tried once again to pull them back. He had spite and determination on his side, but Tim had strength, and Jon hissed a frustrated breath through his teeth as the covers went taut, but motionless. 

“ _Tim_ ,” Jon snapped.

“Shhh. M’sleeping,” Tim mumbled. Jon could hear the grin in his voice, the _bastard_. 

“Martin,” he groaned, appealing for back-up, nudging Martin until he sighed and prodded Tim in the thigh with one foot, reaching out to draw Jon closer to his side. 

“So help me, I will turn this bed around,” Martin mumbled, eyes still closed as Tim took advantage of Jon’s slackened grip to gain another inch of duvet, shoulders shaking with silent laughter. “Tim, don’t be an arse.” 

“You love my arse.” 

“That doesn’t even make _sense_ ,” Jon muttered. 

“ _You_ don’t make sense.” 

“Right, that’s it—” Jon let go of the covers to clamber over Martin’s legs where they bisected the bed, ignoring Martin’s grumble of complaint and grasping Tim’s shoulder. “You are absolutely—argh!” 

“Argh?” Tim echoed cheerfully, having whipped around like a cobra to spread his arms and grab Jon, all but clutching him to his chest. “Aww, have you come for a cuddle? That’s adorable.” 

“ _Tim!”_ Jon snarled, writhing in his grip furiously, now caught immobile and still _on top_ of the damn covers, kicking out at whatever part of Tim he could reach until an unseen pressure forced them both off the side of the mattress in a tangle of limbs, covers and all, Jon’s landing cushioned by Tim’s chest. Tim shot up indignantly to confront Martin who just rolled onto his stomach with a sigh. 

“If you’re going to fight, you can stay down there,” he said serenely, yawning and then pillowing his head on his folded arms. Tim glared, huffing out an irritable breath and scooting back to let Jon get to his feet again, watching as he gathered the covers around himself like a cape. 

“What, just taking them all now?” 

“I might. Martin doesn’t seem to mind,” Jon replied, a petulant edge to his voice. “If you want any, you’ll have to be nice to me.” 

“Ugh,” Tim made a face, swooning dramatically backwards onto the carpet. “Fate worse than death. I’ll just lie down here and freeze to death, shall I?” 

“Fine by me.” Jon clambered back onto the bed, kicking out one end of the duvet to cover Martin who rolled onto his side to wrap an arm around Jon’s waist, spooning him from behind and opening his eyes to smirk at Tim. 

“Coming, love?” 

“I hate you both. I was nearly asleep.” 

“Mhm. You’ll live.” 

Tim got to his feet with as many dramatic huffs and winces as he could manage, rubbing his hip where it’d hit the ground and slipping back onto his side of the bed, giving Jon’s forehead a little poke. “If I come and cuddle you, are you going to bite me?” 

“If you poke me again I will,” Jon muttered, cracking open one eye to give Tim a baleful stare. “Come on, then. If you’re coming.” 

Tim rolled his eyes but squirmed closer until Jon lifted the covers to let him in, drifting off to sleep bracketed by Tim and Martin, safe in the centre of the nest they made together. 

* * * 

“Jon?” Tim murmured, absently stroking a hand through Jon’s hair. 

“Hm?” Jon opened his eyes, propping one arm on Tim’s chest to lean up and look at him properly, dislodging Martin where he was curled up against his spine. Martin mumbled something incoherent in his sleep, rolling over to hug a pillow instead, breaths settling back into an even rhythm. 

“Do you have some sort of medical anomaly that makes your feet freezing cold at all times?” 

“Oh, very nice.” Jon huffed. “And here I was thinking you wanted to have a conversation.” 

Tim grinned, squirming in half-hearted protest as Jon exacted his revenge by wriggling closer to press his feet against Tim’s legs, laying his head down on his chest again. 

“Sadist. I was only asking the question,” he huffed when they were settled again, kissing Jon’s forehead quickly. Affection was still a little odd between them, so much less familiar than bickering and sniping, but every so often Tim would surprise him with a quick kiss, or by leaning into his side when they sat on the sofa together. It was—well. Nice. It was nice. “I can’t believe anyone could sleep that close to Martin and still have cold feet. He’s a furnace.” 

“Mm. Suits me.” 

“Well, you’re an icicle.” 

“We can’t all be as thermodynamically equilibrious as you are.” 

“Well-”

“Not all of us have your exceptionally rigorous approach to homeostasis, Tim.” 

“Oh, shut up.” Tim smoothed Jon’s hair back from his face, rubbing his thumb against his temple gently.

“Mmhm.” Jon lay still a while, listening to the sound of Martin’s deep, even breathing in the darkness. “Can’t you sleep?” he asked, feeling the movement of Tim’s sigh as his chest dipped under his cheek. 

“Not really. You?” 

“No.”

Sleep was evasive at the best of times. Even more so when they had paranormal threats to worry about. They all had their ways of dealing with it, little coping mechanisms. Tim spurred himself into a flurry of activity—going for runs, cooking meals, deep-cleaning the house—anything he could think of to keep his hands busy and his mind on whatever music he was playing rather than the threat of a silvered worm in the shadows. Jon worked, of course, keeping his eyes on the statements and his mind on the facts, digging deeper into the fears of others to detract from his own. 

And Martin—

Well, he was _Martin._ He fussed. He made cups of tea and rubbed moisturiser into Tim’s cracked palms. He made sure that Jon ate and coaxed him to bed at a semi-reasonable hour. He did all sorts of things to keep their minds off the realities of their situation, he threw his own worries outwards and focused on the feelings of others instead. 

They all had clouds hanging over them, these days. Demons squatting on their shoulders and weighing them down. Jon tried to remember that, when the burden grew too heavy and he was tempted to close his office door on the rest of the world; he didn’t have to bear this alone, and neither did either of them. 

“What do you normally do?” Jon asked, reaching over to find Tim’s hand and lace their fingers together over the steady beat of his heart. “To get to sleep, I mean.” 

“Oh, I don’t know. Count sheep?” Tim murmured back, squeezing Jon’s hand. 

“Really?” 

“Nah. Reading helps, but I don’t want to turn the light on.” 

“No, waking Martin up would defeat the object a bit,” Jon agreed. “Any other ideas?” 

Tim smiled—Jon could see the dim glint of his teeth in the darkness—and shook his head. “S’alright, love.” 

Love. That was another new development of theirs. Martin’s petnames came easier, softer, _serduszko_ and _kochanie_ and _poppet_ and _sweetpea_ , falling from his lips like snow, like honey. Tim defaulted to _boss_ more often than anything else but here, in the darkness, perhaps it was easier to wear his heart on his sleeve. 

It had taken a while for them to forgive one another, Tim still wounded by Jon’s suspicion, Jon still unsettled by Tim’s irritability over the last little while. It had been a slow process, it still was. Each dimly-lit conversation seemed to make things a little easier. 

“I could tell you a story?” Jon suggested, regretting it as soon as the words left his mouth and Tim turned his head to look at him properly, laughing in disbelief. 

“Really?” 

“Well, I—I thought, maybe-”

“No, that’s-” Tim shook his head, wrapping his arm more securely around Jon’s shoulders, squeezing his hand tightly. “ That’s lovely. I mean, it’s—sweet. Yeah. As long as you don’t mean a statement, I’ve had enough of those to last me a lifetime.” 

“I don’t mean a statement,” Jon grumbled, shifting a little to get comfortable. “I do occasionally have thoughts that don’t involve statements.” 

“Sure about that, boss?” 

“Fine, _don’t_ have a story. No skin off my nose.” 

“No, no!” Tim squirmed, bringing their joined hands up to his lip to press a kiss to the base of Jon’s palm. “C’mon, Jon, don’t be like that, I’ll-”

“ _Alright_ ,” Jon huffed, shushing Tim and twisting to glance behind him, checking that Martin hadn’t woken up. “Hush. Settle down.” 

“Mmhm.” Tim shifted against the sheets, smoothing his hand down Jon’s spine and up again. “I’m listening.” 

“Right.” Now that he actually had to tell the story Jon felt every book he’d ever read in his life flee his mind, leaving him wracking his brains and grimacing as he tried to come up with something coherent. The only stories he could remember with any clarity, it seemed, were those he’d read as a child, but since Tim would never let the matter be if he stopped _now_ , that would have to do. “How about, er—alright. There was a mole-”

“Has to start with _once upon a time_ , Jon, or it isn’t a story,” Tim cut in, laughing breathlessly when Jon elbowed him in the ribs. 

“Shut up. _Once upon a time_ , then, there was a mole cleaning his house. Spring was coming, and it was time to air the place out—”

It had been years since he’d last even looked at a copy of _The Wind in the Willows_ , but the story was simple enough. And telling it was meditative, almost, the rhythm of the well-worn characters and the story fitting around him like a glove. By the time he drew a pause to remember what happened after they reached Badger’s house Tim was snoring, and Jon made a mental note to try and come up with something a bit more erudite if this happened again. 

When it happened again. There would be other sleepless nights. Perhaps there would even be other sleepless nights together. 

He curled up against Tim’s side, yawning and preparing to go to sleep himself, only to blink awake at the touch of a warm palm against his hip, Martin shuffling closer. 

“You’re a good storyteller,” he mumbled and Jon almost _blushed_ , glad that the darkness would hide it. 

“I thought you were asleep,” he muttered rather than answer properly, feeling a kiss pressed to the nape of his neck, the warmth of it seeping through him like a first sip of tea. 

“Mm. I know.” 

“Why didn’t you say something?” 

“Didn’t want to interrupt. You two are sweet when you’re not at each other’s throats.” 

“Yes, yes. Go back to sleep, Martin,” Jon grumbled, smiling when he felt Martin nuzzle into his shoulder, chest against his back, the soft cotton of his pyjamas comfortable and familiar against his skin. 

“Bossy,” Martin teased, and Jon chewed his lower lip, considering. 

That was another thing that came and went. Since the first night, there’d been a few more forays in that direction. Nothing quite so overwhelming as the first night—most of it had been conversation, Jon tentatively explaining his boundaries, which wasn’t exactly an easy conversation when he was hardly sure of them himself. Sometimes he was interested. Often, he wasn’t. Often he hardly wanted to be touched at all, let alone in any way sexually. 

So far, it was purely hypothetical. Things had been kept to soft kisses and warm embraces. Sometimes, that teasing tone of Martin’s voice, or the looks Tim gave him out of the corner of his eye, made him wonder whether he might feel otherwise, under the right circumstances. 

“Go to sleep,” he repeated softly. 

* * * 

Even without the benefit of an alarm clock, Tim could be relied upon to wake up obscenely early. He’d doze for an hour or so until half-seven and then wriggle out of bed to pull on some clothes and disappear downstairs. Sometimes he’d return with cups of tea and coffee to go cold on the bedside table while Jon and Martin slept on, curled on his side of the bed with a book. Today, he’d gone off for a run, promising to return with milk. 

The bed seemed a little emptier without him in it, though Jon wasn’t about to admit that when he’d spent half the night grousing at Tim’s shifting and fidgeting nearly kicking him off the bloody mattress altogether. He squirmed across the expanse of the sheets to reach Martin, wrapping an arm around his waist and scoffing when Martin, still half-asleep, gave a theatrical shiver and curled his fingers around Jon’s hand. 

“God, _how_ are you still so cold?” 

“Talent and practice,” Jon mumbled into Martin’s shoulder. 

“Has Tim gone?” 

“Mmhm. Off on a jog.” 

“Rather him than me.” Martin yawned, stroking his thumb over the back of Jon’s hand. “M’gonna doze a bit more.” 

“Me too.” 

Somehow, this had become routine. Somehow, Jon’s nights in the office were becoming fewer and further between. Somehow, when Martin and Tim shrugged on their coats at the end of the day, he found himself joining them more often than not. 

Last week Tim had headed off a little earlier, off for a drink with Sasha, and said _see you at home?_ to the both of them. Jon had nodded without thinking about it, and now the word _home_ was ringing around his head, over and over. 

He had a flat of his own, of course. But it had been a long time since he’d been there, and the bed would seem desolate without Martin and Tim in it. 

In the next hour or so they tossed and turned together—Jon ended up on his back, Martin’s head on his shoulder, and then on his other side with Martin curled against him, the both of them drowsy and warm. The room was a little lighter when Jon next opened his eyes, golden Saturday-morning sun spilling through the gap in Tim’s blinds, and Jon stretched himself out until he shivered, cuddling back against Martin. 

It took him a moment to realise that something felt just slightly _different_ about Martin’s pyjamaed body pressed to his, the way Martin hummed and nuzzled closer, tipping his hips forward and— _ah_. 

He must have tensed because Martin pulled away almost immediately, and Jon swore he could feel the heat of his blush before he turned his head to confirm the embarrassed look on Martin’s face, the way he immediately shifted back to a respectable distance. 

“Sorry. I’ll, ah—” Martin smiled sheepishly, “I’ll go shower.” 

Jon nodded, closing his eyes. They could leave it at that. It wouldn’t be the first time, after all, that either Tim or Martin had slipped away quietly, individually or together. The invitation was open, he knew that, they’d had that conversation. He listened to Martin pull the covers back and stifle another yawn, the sound of shifting fabric as he lifted his arms over his head to stretch. 

“You don’t have to.” He murmured it into the silence and heard a little intake of breath from Martin, opened his eyes to see him looking down at him, cheeks still flushed and expression uncertain. “You can stay,” he added softly, by way of clarification. “If you want, I mean.” 

“Do you, ah—”

“I don’t want to _do_ anything,” Jon replied quickly, shaking his head and then pushing himself upright, reaching for a pillow to prop against the headboard so he could lean back. “But—if you wanted—I could-”

“Watch?” Martin prompted. Jon wondered whether he’d imagined the slightest of movements under Martin’s pyjama bottoms. 

“That’s right.” 

Watching was fine. He’d certainly seen more than that, and there were so many undeniably charming things about the sight of Martin breathless and flustered. Or _not_ flustered, not flustered at all, calm and in-control and driving Tim out of his mind one way or another. Jon scrubbed a hand over his face to get the sleep out of his eyes, watching as Martin gave the idea some consideration. 

“You’re sure?” 

“Martin.” 

“I’m just-”

“I’m sure.” 

“Right.” Martin sucked in a breath and let it out slowly, easing himself back onto the bed next to Jon, leaning against the headboard with him. “Right,” he said again, licking his lips. “I’ll, ah—”

“You could start by getting undressed,” Jon suggested helpfully and Martin nodded, plucking at the buttons on his pyjamas. Traditional pyjamas, a shirt and bottoms. Something so distinctly _Martin_ , so straight from the world of Paddington Bear, that it made Jon want to melt. He shrugged off the shirt to reveal warm skin, a smattering of hair over his chest, all yielding softness as welcoming as the bed they’re sharing. 

“Bossy,” Martin added, almost as an afterthought, and Jon smiled. 

“Isn’t that your job?” 

“You’d think,” Martin said dryly, hooking his thumbs through the waistband of his pyjamas and wriggling out of them, kicking them off the bed. He was half-hard, but when Jon made no secret of hiding the way he raked his eyes down Martin’s body he saw his cock twitch, watched Martin shiver as he reached down to cup himself and give a few slow strokes. Something to take the edge off, Jon expected. 

“I liked that more than I thought I would,” Jon said, leaning back a little more comfortably. “You being bossy, I mean. Directing.” 

“Someone needs to keep the train on the tracks,” Martin murmured, a flush creeping down his neck and over his chest. “If I left you and Tim to your own devices-”

“I know, I know. Chaos. It suits you, being in charge.” Somehow it was easier to talk about this when he could see Martin’s breath hitch with each casual word, the way he bit his lip and half-closed his eyes and pressed his hips up into his own hand. “Do you enjoy it?” 

“Mmhm. It’s not exactly an act of charity,” Martin replied, smiling. “I mean, the first few times that Tim and I got together, he was pretty determined to be the one steering.” 

“Of course he was,” Jon snorted. “That didn’t last long.” 

“No.” Martin said, all fondness, tipping his head back with a sigh. “Tell me what else you liked?” he added a moment later, a quiver in his voice, and Jon opened his mouth and then closed it again, considering. 

“I’d rather talk about what you like,” he said finally, watching Martin’s hand move slowly over himself, liquid pearling at the tip when he squeezed gently. “Do you always go this slowly?” 

“Oh. Sorry. Do you want me to—”

“No, no—God, it’s not a _complaint_ , I’m just—you’re very patient.” 

“I like to take my time.” Martin nodded. “I like to, um—do things properly?” 

“You’re very thorough,” Jon agreed. “What else?” 

“This,” Martin breathed. “You, watching. Your voice.” 

“Ah. Yes, well. I can see _that_ ,” Jon laughed, running a hand through his hair. “My voice? Really?” 

“Yeah.” Martin’s chest was flushed now, his cock fully hard and straining in his hand. “God, when you—last time around, when you _asked_ me if you could—and the way you sounded, the way you _looked_ at me—”

Jon felt a little warm himself, now, shifting on the bed and watching Martin arch his back with a bitten-off sound, breath quickening. “What else?” he asked, following Martin’s other hand as it travelled up his chest. “Martin,” he prompted after a few seconds of nothing but panted breaths, “tell me.” 

“I like—mmh—a-anything that makes my partner feel good, really. Ropes, I’m fond of? Um—Christ, I—kissing, I like kissing, I like kissing _you_ , I—God, Jon—” 

“You look lovely like this,” Jon said softly, because—well, largely because it was true. Martin was a vision like this, feet planted against the bed, back arched and head thrown back, hair falling into his squeezed-shut eyes. Martin made a positively _indecent_ noise at that and Jon picked up the thread of conversation since Martin seemed to quickly be getting beyond speech. “You really do. You’re gorgeous,” he said, quiet and sincere. 

“ _Jon_ —” there was a definite urgent pitch to Martin’s voice now, the way his brow creased and he bit his lip hard, free hand clenching and unclenching in the sheets. 

“Go on, Martin,” Jon said, for want of anything better, but it seemed to do the trick readily enough—Martin shuddered and spilled over his stomach and his hand, breathing hard as he relaxed. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Martin breathed, heartfelt and ragged, and Jon stifled a laugh. 

“Good?” 

“Christ. Yeah. Yes. I, um—and you?” Martin cracked open his eyes with apparent effort, staring up at Jon hazily. His lips were red where he’d bitten at them and Jon considered kissing them, the press of his lips to Martin’s, swallowing down a few more sounds of his. Interesting. 

“Yes,” he replied, smiling. “I—I think so.” 

“Right. Well, I really _will_ go and shower now,” Martin mumbled. “And then I’m going to come right back to bed ‘cause you’ve ruined me.” 

“That’s all it takes, is it?” 

“Oh, you’re smug now?” Martin threw a pillow at Jon gently. “Unbelievable. Just you wait, I’ll have my revenge.” 

Later, when Martin was showered and dressed again, sitting up in bed with Jon curled against his side, Tim bounced back into the room with a paper holder for three takeaway drinks, sniffing each drink in turn before handing one to Martin. 

“Morning! Right, that’s yours, and that—yeah, this one’s got milk in it, here you go, Jon. Hope I didn’t miss anything too exciting!” 

* * * 

Another weekend, Tim stayed in bed. Jon woke up to see him staring at his tablet, drawing letters in mid-air with a look of intense concentration. 

“Wordsearch?” he mumbled, and Tim rolled his eyes. 

“Cheeky git. Cryptic crossword, actually, thanks _very_ much.” 

“Mmhm.” Jon squirmed closer to see the screen, squinting at the brightness of it. “What’re you stuck on?” 

“Three down. Five, four— _this cylinder is jammed_. First word ends with an s, and that’s all I’ve got.” 

“Anagram?” 

“Not enough letters in cylinder.” 

“Hmph. Try another one.” 

“That’s what I thought.” Tim’s free hand made its way into Jon’s hair and he closed his eyes, humming as he felt Tim drag his nails gently over his scalp. “Is this helping you think?” 

“No. It’s lovely, though, don’t stop,” Jon murmured, and Tim huffed a laugh. 

“Your wish is my command.” 

“Liar.” 

“Fine. Your wish is Martin’s command, and so by proxy...it’s like trickle-down economics.” 

“I don’t think you know what trickle-down economics are.” 

“Maybe so.”

“That’s ridiculous, anyway. You have Martin wrapped around your little finger.” 

“I’d rather be wrapped around his—”

“ _Tim_.” 

“Can’t believe I missed out on you bossing him around. Bet he was beside himself.” 

“I wasn’t exactly bossing him around,” Jon muttered, eyes still closed. “Just watching.” 

“I know. You said.” Tim bent his head to kiss Jon’s forehead, humming thoughtfully. “And hand on heart, I’m glad you both had fun. Right. Eleven across— _part of autumn operation employs army swimmers_. Nine letters.” 

Jon had work to be doing waiting for him at the Institute, he knew. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d gone in on a Saturday, it certainly wouldn’t be the last. He was idling, here. Wasting time listening to Tim try out different variations of autumn months to get to the answer, rolling his eyes at the resolution of _army swimmers_ being _octopuses_. 

“Octopuses isn’t even a word, it’s octopi.” 

“Can be either. Take it from someone who worked in publishing.” 

“I find it hard to believe you’ve ever actually _worked_ anywhere,” Jon grumbled, and Tim gasped as if wounded. 

“So _rude_ to me. See if I ever hack into anything again.” 

“Sasha does that.” 

“Fine. See if I ever flirt with someone while Sasha hacks into something again.” 

Another minute ticking by, another minute of time wasted. He’d regret it later when he was only too aware of the task before him and the scant hours in which he could do it, the rising tide of fear threatening to sweep them all away. But somehow, bickering with Tim while Martin slept beside them, it was easy to let the time disappear, to forget that anything existed outside of the three of them, and this bed, and their tangled legs. 

“You know,” Martin mumbled, interrupting their sniping as he rolled onto his back to stretch, “I’m pretty sure if we could hook up some sort of argument-powered generator, you two could power half of London.” 

“Clapham, at least,” Tim agreed. “Martin, five four, _this cylinder is jammed_ —what do you think?” 

“Ugh.” Martin made a face. “It’s definitely too early in the morning for anything cryptic. I, er—God. I don’t know. Swiss roll?” 

“ _Swiss roll!”_ Tim put his tablet to the side in favour of leaning over Jon to kiss Martin. “You’re a genius.”

“You’ve got morning breath,” Martin retorted, amused, cupping Tim’s face with one hand. “And you’ll squash Jon, kochanie, lean back.” 

“My hero,” Jon said dryly, smiling when Tim leaned back to let Martin kiss his cheek, soft and fond. “Morning.” 

“Morning, sweetheart.” Familiar those pet-names might have been, but Martin still blushed a little whenever he called Jon one. Worth the lost time, in Jon’s opinion. Worth every second of it. 

* * * 

Whilst Jon’s late nights were fewer, now, further between, he still spent most of his time in the office curled over his desk. That had unfortunate consequences for his spine and his shoulders and, on this particular morning, had led to him trying to get out of bed and falling straight back into it with a noise that was closer to a whimper than he’d like to admit. 

“You’re definitely too young to be throwing your back out, boss,” Tim remarked, grinning, raising his eyebrows when Jon only groaned in response. “You alright?” 

“No,” Jon muttered. “No, not really.” 

“Christ. Have you _actually_ thrown your back out?” 

“Maybe.” That was all he needed. Jon performed a sort of belly-down army crawl into the centre of the bed so he could splay himself out, face buried in a pillow. 

“Oh, Jon-” Martin was a blur of action almost instantly. “Alright. I’ll get the kettle on. Tim, do you have any painkillers?” 

“Yeah, there’s ibuprofen in the bathroom, I’ll go get it.” 

“Right. How bad is it?” Martin’s hand was warm over the base of his spine and Jon sighed, instantly embarrassed by the fuss. 

“I’m _fine_ , Martin. Just a bit sore. I’ll just rest it for a few minutes and then I’m sure I’ll be fine.” 

“Well, there’s no hurry. Let me make some tea, take some painkillers and then see how you feel in half an hour or so.” Martin leaned in to kiss his temple and Jon flapped a hand in vague acknowledgement, listening to footsteps as Tim retrieved pills and a glass of water, as Martin padded downstairs to get tea. 

Half an hour didn’t make any sort of vast improvement. The painkillers took the edge off of the ache in his spine, but Jon was, apparently, stuck there for the time being, lying on his stomach. 

“Could slide a book under your face?” Tim suggested, and Jon gave him the most succinct response he could manage, extending a furious middle finger and rolling his eyes in the pillow at how it just made Tim laugh. “ _Fine_. Fine. Tell you what, I’ve got another idea—” he disappeared before Jon could ask him to explain himself and Jon gave the most martyred sigh he could manage. 

“His bedside manner’s a bit energetic, hm?” Martin murmured, settling on the bed, the mattress dipping as he settled against the headboard. 

“Much too energetic,” Jon agreed, squirming until he could rest his cheek against Martin’s thigh. “Any chance you could shut him up?” 

“Only temporarily, I’m afraid.” 

“Pity.” 

“There you go, being rude again,” Tim huffed, settling on the bed on the other side of Jon. “I’ve brought you a present.” 

“Is it a gag?”

“Mr Sims, you kinky devil. No, it’s not, actually. Just you settle down.” 

Jon sighed, making himself as comfortable as he could under the circumstances, listening to the rustle of pages above him. 

“In a hole in the ground,” Tim read, “there was a hobbit.” 

“It has to start with _once upon a time_ —”

“Shut up, Jon.” 

He did, and Tim kept reading. Fantasy wasn’t Jon’s genre of choice, but it was considerably better than lying with his face in a pillow listening to nothing. With Martin’s hand rubbing absently over his shoulder and the nape of his neck, and Tim proving a surprisingly good narrator, it was almost pleasant. By the time Tim came to a pause he was only half-awake, making a questioning noise when Tim touched his shoulder. 

“How’s your back feeling, love?” 

Jon made a noncommittal noise and Tim hummed. 

“Think a massage would help?” 

“A massage?” Jon wrinkled his nose, considering. “Maybe. If you try it and I shriek, stop.” 

“You have my solemn oath.” Tim snorted. 

“I didn’t know you were much of a masseur, Tim,” Martin remarked as Tim put the book aside. 

“Man of many talents, me. And I did gymnastics—it helps to keep everything loose,” Tim replied cheerfully, repositioning himself and straddling Jon’s hips, settling his hands gently against his ribs. “Right. How’s that?” 

“Fine. If you tickle me, so help me _God_ —”

“I won’t! I won’t. Scout’s honour.” Jon could hear the grin in Tim’s voice, could imagine the fond expression on Martin’s face. “Now, look, where’s it hurt?” 

“Lower than that,” Jon sighed, trying to relax under the sure sweeps of Tim’s hands from his waist up to his shoulders and back again, wincing a little at the first application of gentle pressure. “Nearer my tailbone, really.” 

“Mmhm.” Tim adjusted accordingly, pressing his thumbs either side of Jon’s spine and rubbing slow circles. “Here?” 

“Argh. Yes. _Ow_ ,” Jon groaned, shaking his head against Martin’s thigh when Tim stopped. “No, it’s—it’s fine. Keep going. I think it’s helping, it just hurts.” 

“Whatever you say, boss,” Tim got back to it, setting to easing the knots out of Jon’s spine with surprising aptitude, pressing harder when Jon asked, easing off after a few seconds each time to make sure he was still alright. Jon wasn’t quite sure when the targeted ministrations on his back turned to broader strokes of Tim’s hands, up to his shoulders to ease the tension in his neck, along his ribs, against his hips. 

“You’re being very thorough,” Jon remarked softly, turning his head to watch as Tim rubbed his thumb into the palm of his hand, easing out the tension in each joint of his fingers. It shouldn’t have felt nearly as good as it did, but Jon felt like he was melting into the bed, bit by bit, thread by thread. 

“‘Course,” Tim replied simply. “Would you like me to stop?” 

“No,” Jon shook his head again, noting that the movement didn’t pull half as much at his neck as it had last time. “No, it’s—it’s nice.” 

“Good. Marto, care to keep reading?” Tim offered, reaching over to retrieve the book and hand it to Martin who took it, nodding. 

“If you like. Let’s see—the next morning, Bilbo woke up with the early sun in his eyes—”

Tim had long-since massaged each and every scrap of tension out of Jon’s back, but that didn’t seem to matter to him given he was apparently minded to do the same thing to Jon’s legs, his thighs, his shoulders. Jon imagined that his hands had to be cramping up by now, and almost asked him as much, except Martin was reading and he wasn’t keen to interrupt. For all Martin talked about his voice, he had to admit he was fond of Martin’s. Martin did voices for each character with an admirable degree of sincerity. 

By the time Tim did stop, shaking out his hands, Jon felt like he might have been subsumed into the mattress entirely, drifting on the sound of Martin’s voice, the feeling of Tim’s hands against his body.

“Feeling better?” Tim asked at Martin’s next pause, and Jon just flapped a hand back until he could grab Tim’s shirt, tugging him closer and turning his head to look at him with half-lidded eyes. 

“Hey,” Tim said softly, and Jon smiled. 

“Hey,” he replied, tugging at Tim’s shirt so he could press a swift, soft kiss to his lips. It was just a peck, but it was enough to make Tim beam, a radiant grin splitting his face. “You’re good at massages. I’d hire you.” 

“I’m impressed you got all the way through that without one quip about happy endings,” Martin murmured from above and Tim laughed, shrugging. 

“What can I say? Best behaviour for the boss.” 

“And don’t you forget it,” Jon grumbled, eyes slipping shut again. “I might—I might sleep a bit more, actually.” 

“Fair enough. God knows you need all the sleep you can get,” Martin said, gently dislodging Jon’s head from his leg and pulling the covers over him. “We’ll be downstairs if you need us.” 

* * * 

“I thought,” Martin remarked casually, “that your new mantra in life was _best behaviour for the boss_?” 

Tim didn’t reply, but then he wasn’t really in a position to. Jon made a thoughtful noise from his place on the bed, watching with his hands folded primly in his lap as Martin slid his hand from Tim’s belly to his neck, wrapping a hand around his throat to give a gentle squeeze. His other hand was holding Tim’s wrists tightly behind his back to keep him from doing what he’d just attempted to do: reaching for himself where he’d been aching and untouched for what had to have felt like forever. 

It had been about half an hour, at Jon’s guess, but judging by the frantic look on Tim’s face and the tension in his shoulders, that might as well be a decade. 

“Well, it is _Tim_ we’re talking about,” Jon replied, smirking at the indignant look in Tim’s eyes, even past the desperation. “He’s never behaved in his life.” 

“True,” Martin sighed ruefully, kissing Tim’s shoulder. “Despite my best efforts. What’s to be done about that, mm?” 

“You’re the expert,” Jon replied with a shrug. Tim rolled his eyes, trying to say something, his efforts thoroughly thwarted by the ball-gag stretching his lips, leaving his chin spit-slick and shining. “You could always give him a cold shower.” Tim made another thoroughly indignant noise and Martin chuckled, squeezing Tim’s throat again ever-so-gently just to see his eyes roll back in his head a little bit. 

“Shh. Not tonight, I don’t think, though that could be one to keep for another time. Tell you what—Jon, would you mind lending a hand?” Martin asked, looking at Jon who paused, blinking at him. 

“What did you have in mind?” he asked hesitantly. He’d only intended to watch tonight, and that hadn’t changed, though he had to admit that Tim made a gorgeous sight like this. Watching Martin tease him with nothing more than his hands and his mouth, working him up to a peak and then pulling him back from it with a well-placed pinch or a scrape of his nails or a firm grip at the base of his cock—well, it was masterful, really. 

“Just your hands. Would you hold Tim’s wrists for me?” Martin asked. 

“That’s all?” 

“That’s all. And if you don’t fancy it, I’ll just get a pair of cuffs out,” Martin smiled warmly and Jon nodded, shifting onto his knees and shuffling a little closer. “Thank you. Tim, give Jon your wrists, please.” 

He let go of Tim who shivered, rolling his shoulders before reaching forward, waiting for Jon to wrap his fingers around his wrists before doing the same back to him, the two of them clasped together. Jon could feel Tim’s pulse rabbit-fast in his wrist, and he let out a slow breath, rubbing his thumb over his wristbone. 

Martin, meanwhile, shifted back and gave Tim’s hips a tap to bring him back as well until Tim was balanced on his knees, forehead against the mattress and his outstretched arms balanced in Jon’s lap, his cock leaking and angry-red, bobbing untouched above the mattress. 

“There,” Martin said softly. “Gorgeous. Alright, serduszko, let’s see about getting you some manners, hm?” 

His tone was so gentle. Even when he was being firm, flirting with sternness, Martin all but exuded warmth and fondness. Not that that made him a soft touch, as Jon was soon reminded when he watched Martin smooth a hand over Tim’s backside, giving a gentle squeeze—perhaps by way of warning, perhaps just simple appreciation—and then landing a firm smack on one cheek. 

“No crop this time?” Jon asked, and Martin smiled. 

“We’ll keep it simple tonight. Whips and canes and that are all very well, but I can take Tim apart just as well with my hands. It might take a little longer, but we’re in no hurry. Right, Tim?” 

Tim groaned quietly and Martin chuckled, smacking him again. “That’s right. Keep your position for me, there’s a good boy.” 

The smacks didn’t look particularly firm from where Jon was sitting. He could see a flick of Martin’s wrist that presumably would lead to a bit of stinging, but not much in the way of force. Then again, as the minutes dragged on, Jon could well imagine that ten minutes of even gentle smacks would build up a store of heat _eventually_. Tim was squirming a little in place, flexing his wrists in Jon’s grip and shifting his knees against the mattress with each steady smack that Martin placed, keeping an even rhythm. 

Jon wondered if it was meditative, doing that. It looked like it might almost be calming to be on the receiving end, if the slaps were gentle enough, though he didn’t plan on volunteering. Not tonight, anyway. 

When Martin drew to a stop Tim was panting for breath, red in the face and straining, making soft, incoherent noises from behind the gag. “Alright, sweetheart?” Martin asked, waiting for Tim to let go of one of Jon’s wrists and snap the fingers of one shaking hand. “Good. Had enough? Ready to move onto something else?” 

Tim nodded immediately and Jon gave his wrists a squeeze, waiting for him to look up. His eyes were watering when he did but he looked almost blissful, lax and hazy as he dropped his head again and pressed back towards Martin’s sure hands, now slick with lube. 

The first press of a finger into Tim looked positively electric, his body jolting as he whined, shuddering as his breath hitched and stuttered out of him. Jon watched the muscles in his shoulders and his back flex, the way he arched his spine like an offering, like a sacrifice. The thought of being in his place, losing his control so thoroughly—Jon felt absolutely ambivalent about it. 

On the one hand, being outside of his own control was a terrifying thought. On the other hand, would it really be so terrifying if he had hands as steady as Martin’s to guide him? Martin made all of this look so _easy_ , the press of one finger, two, three, into Tim, coaxing out increasingly urgent sounds from him as he moved at his own sedate pace, his own face positively serene despite the fact that he was hard as well, cock nudging against Tim’s thigh. He’d said, after all, that he liked whatever his partner liked. Perhaps handling somebody else’s needs and wants was its own form of catharsis, for him. Perhaps if his life wasn’t under his own control, then taking control of somebody else and doing right by them, might be sufficiently satisfying for the time being. 

Whatever the case, this clearly worked for them. When Martin finally retrieved a condom and pressed into Tim, slow and steady and unrelenting, the expression on his face was so fiercely adoring that Jon felt his own chest clench. Martin curled one hand around Tim’s hip, reaching forwards to slide the other into Tim’s hair and tug his head back, far enough that Tim’s spine was bowed beautifully without removing his wrists from Jon’s hand. 

“ _Beautiful_ ,” Martin whispered, and the expression on Tim’s face was nothing short of surrender. It felt private. Something intimate and personal and closed, but Jon’s discomfort lasted only as long as it took for Tim’s hands to tighten around his wrists, for Martin to look at him and smile. Inviting him in, to linger on the threshold or sit at the table, or anything else at all. 

“Beautiful,” Martin said again, soft and sincere, and Jon opened his mouth, then closed it again. 

“You are,” he said finally, his own voice a little ragged. “Both of you.” 

Martin had nowhere to hide his blushes at that, so Jon enjoyed the sight of him looking away, clearly considering folding himself over Tim’s back to press his face into his shoulder before deciding that that would be impractical. He was so often implacable, it was fascinating to see his thoughts laid so clearly over his face. Jon smiled, feeling his chest ache with fondness again, watching the smooth slide of Martin’s hips out, in, out again, the way his face flushed and his brow creased with concentration, the way Tim’s moans pitched up until he sounded like he might _die_ from it. 

He was clearly past the point of begging but his body did it for him, and Jon could see that flush at Martin’s chest again when he finally reached down, curling a hand around Tim’s cock, breathing heavily himself now. 

“God, Tim, you’re so good, so good for me,” Martin whispered, “cmon, gorgeous, serduszko, c’mon, good boy—” and that seemed to be enough, more than enough judging by how Tim came hard enough that Jon was _thoroughly_ glad they’d had the foresight to put a towel down earlier. 

The sex part, well, he was hardly at his ease with. He could at least be sure about the practicalities. 

He was swiftly growing sure that it was the part afterwards that he was most fond of, anyway. The way that Tim worked his jaw when the gag was unclipped and immediately scooched forwards to put his head in Jon’s lap, settling like he belonged there. The way that Martin moved quietly around putting towels and clothes in the laundry hamper, disposing of the condom and returning to inspect the marks on Tim’s backside, nodding apparent satisfaction before slipping into bed next to Jon. 

“Alright?” he asked softly, and Tim let out a hazy noise, cracking his eyes open and beaming up at Martin with what had to be pure adoration. 

“Yeah.” 

“Jon?” 

“I’m fine,” Jon confirmed, blinking at the feel of soft fingertips against his chin and then smiling, nodding and leaning in to let Martin kiss him, slow and tender. “You?” he asked when Martin pulled away, watching him smile and duck his head.

“Wonderful,” he replied quietly. “We’d better, er—shift around a bit if we’re going to sleep.” 

“I’m _definitely_ going to sleep,” Tim mumbled from Jon’s lap and Martin snorted, rolling his eyes. 

“Thought so. C’mon, let’s—Tim, you’ll have to get out of Jon’s lap, sweetheart.” 

Tim did so, albeit reluctantly, squirming up to the head of the bed to let Jon pull the covers over all three of them. When he looked down Tim’s eyes were open, watching him as Martin turned the light off and then settled behind him to hold him close. 

“Stay,” Tim said softly and Jon blinked, frowning. 

“I’m not going anywhere, Tim, I’m going to _sleep_.” 

“No, I know. Just—stay. With us,” Tim urged. Jon stared at him, then twisted to look at Martin who just kissed his cheek, nodding. 

There were places he needed to be, things he needed to do. But there was nowhere he wanted to be, nowhere other than in this bed, with these people. What else was there? What else could compare? Jon settled his hand against Tim’s cheek, feeling himself oddly brittle, like he might shatter at a word, at a touch, like glass vibrating too fast to do anything other than break.

“Yes,” he whispered. “Yes, I—yes.” 

Martin let out a shuddering breath, pressing his face into Jon’s neck, and Tim curled closer, the three of them breathing softly, wound up in one another, warm skin and the steady, pounding beat of three hearts. The only thing that broke the silence was a soft laugh from Tim, the sound of fabric shifting as he tangled his legs more thoroughly with Jon’s and wrapped his arm around his waist, pressing a kiss to his jaw with smiling lips. 

“We’re going to need a bigger bed.” 

**Author's Note:**

> If you want more - tell me! I'm always open to suggestions for what to do with these boys.
> 
> Kudos & comments feed my filthy ways. [Find me on tumblr](https://ajcrawly.tumblr.com) and shout at me about JonMarTim.


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